


i've seen god

by yoonminghao



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, anYWAYS IDK READ IT I GUESS, cafe worker!woojin who just wants 2 be closer 2 channie, chan's always tired :( poor bby, chan's inner battles against himself + the voices, he gets described as god a lot djghs, insomniac!chan w depression/anxiety, mentions of a fight, woojin is just doin his best .
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:49:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoonminghao/pseuds/yoonminghao
Summary: i think i’ve seen god, he writes, in the face of a boy. i think i’ve seen heaven in his eyes, felt like i was coming home when i saw his smile. i think, he writes, a part of me slotted back into place after being askew for years and years.





	i've seen god

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i wrote this in the span of a few days. its v short and possibly messy/filled w mistakes bc i didnt proofread lol but its been smth thats been stuck in my head for a while now. i hope u enjoy it! happy holidays!
> 
> tumblr: lovseungmin

the clock stares back at him, blinking 4:00 am over and over again in glaringly bright red. it's almost like it's mocking him for being unable to sleep. a constant tease, a reoccurring reminder that insomnia has him in its clutches and he'll never truly be able to get out of them. it's not that he isn't tired –- if anything, it's the exact opposite. he's exhausted, fatigue seeps into aching bones and he's stuck staring at his clock (minutes pass by which soon turn into hours). if he fails to nab a few sweet hours of unconsciousness, he'll look like a dead man walking (more so than he does right now) due to this being not the first but the second all-nighter in less than four days.

the bags underneath his eyes are already so pronounced and if you didn't look close enough, you'd think they were bruises. his skin was paler than usual and he's not really sure when the last time he ate or drank anything was. it's a miracle he hasn't passed out (from over-exhaustion, from dehydration, from starvation) but can it truly be considered a miracle?

thirty more minutes pass and he ends up giving up on sleeping - honestly, what's the point if he has to get up at 6 am anyways? a defeated sigh escapes parted lips as he gets up, vision slightly blurry and god, was the world shifting or was that just him? he manages to slip a hoodie on as he grabs his phone and wallet, determined to wander the world until numbness was all consuming.

he was a nomad. some called him a free spirit, others just say he hadn't found the thing that'll tie him down yet --- be it a significant other, a job, a place. he, himself, wasn't quite sure why he was the way he was, drifting from low rent apartments to cheap motels, taking up part-time jobs or scraping by with freelance jobs that he dreaded.

his apartment was a mess, unpacked boxes litter every available area and he wasn't ever motivated enough to go and actually move in (he blamed his dumb brain for talking him out of it every single time with excuses that range from ' _you'll move soon enough_ ' to ' _do you really need to do it?'_ ).

 _"what's the point?"_ he thinks.

he is talking about his cluttered apartment? he is talking about his insomnia? he is talking about his several irritating jobs? he is talking about himself and his stance in the world (or lack of one)?

 _"what's the point?"_ he says aloud.

he yearns for a reply, for some answer to clear away the fog that clings to him. he looks to the sky and waits for a few moments but he doesn't receive any response.. _he never does._

***

perhaps chan was never meant to be stationary. whatever deity that resides in the clouds with their mysterious aura and desperate need to hide away from mortals must've decided to say 'fuck it' and ruin him from the beginning. he's on the bus right now (the clock on his phone says it's just 5 am) and he can feel his leg move up and down rapidly. two stops later and his fingers are tapping against his thigh, another stop and his eyes won't quit shifting from thing to thing.

fuck whatever deity made him. fuck science. fuck it all.

he must look crazy. god, _is he?_ has he lost his mind? maybe.. he's not really sure anymore, the lack of sleep causing everything to be disorientated and slowed. if you needed a example, it’s like when you spin around in circles and the world blurs and your head feels as if it’ll pop right off. when you stop, you can’t walk and it feels like your control was stolen from you willingly. the only difference between the feelings being that when you’re spinning around is that it’s over after a few moments.

it’s never over for him it seems.

his stop finally arrives and he’s off in an instant, back to roaming deserted streets with no real destination in mind. his phone tells him he has a good hour and a half before his 7 am shift at his relatively new job (a simple security guard position at a bank that’s down the street). his uniform is there and he doesn’t really have to rush.

 _maybe_ , he thinks, _some caffeine with help_.

that’s how chan ends up at a coffee shop, walking in with uncertain steps and skittish eyes. it looked cozy and felt snug, the decor going with a minimalist theme that incorporated white and red. he walks up to the counter, distracted by the menu overhead (black coffee was all he really wanted but he felt obligated to at least look at the options).

he doesn’t notice the cashier waiting on him until his gaze shifts down and he’s momentarily stunned. a blush creeps up onto his cheeks without his permission due to the fact that he’s standing in front of an angel and, _christ_ , he’s not prepared for this. he’s fidgeting, staring, embarrassing himself before he manages to utter a soft ‘one black coffee, please’ and he wishes the world would open up and swallow him whole, that a void would grip him and never let go.

he hears a faint snicker as the cashier rings it up, announcing the total with amusement. chan quickly scrambles to get his wallet out, handing over the money with shaky hands and he sees the warmest smile he’s ever seen and his insides melt at the sight. his heart slams against his ribcage and he’s falling, falling, _falling_.

his name tag says woojin and chan paints the name onto his soul, etches it into his mind, swears to never forget it and hopes that one day he might be able to utter the holy word. without realizing, he finds himself in a booth, staring at the counter from afar, feelings swirling around within. shaking his head, he sighs as he grabs a napkin and shoves his hand into his pocket for a pen (he always has one on him).

 _i think i’ve seen god_ , he writes, _in the face of a boy_. _i think i’ve seen heaven in his eyes, felt like i was coming home when i saw his smile_. _i think_ , he writes, _a part of me slotted back into place after being askew for years and years_.

he promptly tears the napkin and gets up to throw the shreds away, uneven breaths escaping. hopefully the shift today tires him out because he’s not sure he can handle another night without a single minute of rest, not if it’s affecting him like this. turning back to sit down, he sees a cup of coffee sitting on the table and he curses himself for narrowly missing a second encounter with the ethereal boy.

 _“he’ll break you_ ,” says the voices (they always crawl out of the depths of his mind at the worst of times).

“ _i know_ ,” chan thinks as the first smile in months adorns his face. “ _i’d beg him to do it_.”

***

he talks himself out of going back for two weeks and honestly, he doesn’t remember much of what happens during that time. other than going from job to job and dealing with the killing touch of insomnia (often accompanied by anxiety and depression), he hasn’t really done much. chan would say he’s not truly living, he’s just alive and there’s a huge difference between the two.

to live is to be happy, to laugh and smile, to explore the world and see the sights, to have friends to talk to and see, to have a reason for existing (even if it’s just one).

to be alive is to survive, to eat / hydrate / sleep because your body needs it, to isolate and only really truly exist to yourself, to lack a reason for existing but continuing anyways.

chan is merely alive.

***

it was a bad day from the very beginning. his mother used to say something about things like this, that you could sense if it’s going to be a good or bad day by the smell of the air. open your door and take a whiff, what does it remind you of? does it make you smile or does it make you want to crawl back into bed? look at the clouds, are they darker than usual? take it all in, you’ll be able to know how today will go.

he never really understood what his mother meant by that. perhaps if he did what she had said to do, he would’ve known to stay inside. would it have helped, though? chan has a habit of saying ‘ _ah well_ ’ and ignoring the signs that scream ‘ _don’t go_ ’. he would’ve gone out anyways if the voices are right (and they always are).

so now he’s sitting in the alleyway between two shabby stores (one of liquor, the other of knock-off clothes) and he wishes he was never born, much less awake and out of the house. his skin on his knuckles is broken, red spills down and coats his pale porcelain skin (it reminds him of the cafe’s decor but he’s too distracted to think further than that).

his lip is busted, he can tell by the metallic taste that lingers on his tongue. his face aches and he’s positive that technicolor bruises will litter his skin (varying from crimson, violet and azure). sometimes, he’ll see someone look down the alley and look at him with confusion and worry before remembering it’s none of their business, walking away without even asking if he’s okay.

(he wasn’t okay but he was alive. is that a good thing? he’s not certain).

perhaps this is just how life is at times. one day, you’re smiling for the first time in months because you think you’ve seen god in the flesh and the next day, you’re covered in your own blood all due to the fact that you’re easy prey and you make one too many sarcastic remarks.

chan allows himself to wallow in his sorrow — in his own personal pity party — for what seems like hours before he forces himself up. after all, those bastards could come back and he can’t afford to go to the hospital if he broke anything.

he zones out the whole time he’s walking and only focuses back in to reality when he notices his dumb fucking feet took him to the cafe from a few weeks back. he’s not exactly in the state to go into there (not with his scrapped palms and dust-covered jeans and bloody shirt) but, of course, chan’s day just has to get worse when he autopilots and ends up inside.

he can feel the stares (burning his skin with their glares, honing in on him like he was food and they were a starving predator) and a shiver goes down his spine. he feels the need to bolt out of there, however, things don’t go that way when a voice cuts through his thoughts and he’s face-to-face with _him_.

“are you okay?” and, _fuck_ , his heart speeds up and he’s frozen in place. his voice was healing — like everything good in the world melded together in a harmonious mixture.

“i’m,” chan hesitates, swallowing the small amount of spit left in his desert dry mouth, “fine? i’m okay.”

“you sure? you don’t look okay. c’mere, i think we have an emergency first aid kit somewhere, let me at least patch you up.”

“why?”

 _fuck_ , chan didn’t mean to say that out loud! he panics, eyes widening as his mouth hangs agape, blood covered teeth exposed ever so slightly. 

“what?”

“why do you want to help me? what’s.. what’s the point?”

and woojin, like a god would, smiles kindly and shrugs before his sweet pink lips moved and selfless words form. he speaks like he’s lived eons, a gleam in his eyes that made chan weak in his knees.

“no point to it, i’d just like to help. you coming?”

he pauses, debates if this is a good thing or not, the voices screaming he’ll be burned for flying too close to the sun. ‘ _you’ve seen icarus_ ’, they say, ‘ _why would you ever want to follow in his footsteps?’_ all chan can think is ‘ _maybe i was meant to be burned, maybe this is what was meant to happen. let the sun engulf me, i’ll let it as long as i can be around for him even just a few moments’_.

***

he can’t seem to stop himself from going there after woojin puts him back together. he keeps going, ordering only a small black coffee and sitting in the same booth. sometimes — on the rare days that the world is collapsing onto chan and suffocating him for the fun of it — he’ll hold a small conversation with him. he finds out that woojin has the job because he’s in college and needs the cash desperately. he’s majoring in music and education, dreams of being a choir teacher at a school someday in the future.

useless facts that mean nothing to some people mean the world to chan. he memorizes every word that woojin so gratefully allows him to hear. his favorite color is brown but he always tells people red instead, prefers the morning to the night, loves cheesy movies on a rainy night, never drinks coffee but is a tea addict, eats chicken more than he does anything else.

though, on days when he can’t manage to speak more than his order, woojin notices but never pushes. he gets this odd look on his face, one that chan hasn’t been able to decipher. on those days, he sits in the booth with his head against the table, trying desperately to steady his heart and breathing. the voices are rougher than usual, cruel as they spit venom on chan’s self inflicted wounds.

 _what did i do to_ , he thinks, _to deserve this?_

 _existed_ , they reply.

he hates those days but he manages a barely noticeable smile when he sees woojin. it’s the highlight, the saving grace, the blessing.

 _does he even know_ , he thinks, _how much he helps?_

 _of course not_ , they say, _you’re just a customer to him._

and the voices are always right.

***

“hey, chan?” woojin asks, immediately earning chan’s attention without even having to try. woojin had decided to spend his break sitting with chan at his designated booth. chan sipped his black coffee while woojin drank green tea.

“yeah?”

“have you been getting enough sleep lately?” woojin reaches out, fingertips fluttering over the bruise-like bags under chan’s eyes. chan shakes his head no, deciding they was no use lying to him when his appearance gave him away. “i don’t think i should supply you coffee when you look like death, channie. why don’t you go home and get some rest?”

oh, how he _wishes_ it was that easy. he yearns to be able to lay his head down and fall asleep with ease, to be free of insomnia’s clutches. alas, wishes are rarely ever fulfilled and he’s stuck being unable to sleep.

“got insomnia,” chan replies. “i wish i could rest but i can’t, doesn’t matter what i do. sleeping medicine, bullshit techniques, ways to relieve stress.. they never work on me. i guess i’m a lost cause.”

“maybe it’s because you’re lonely.”

“i’ve always been like this, woojin.”

a sad smile appears as well as does the indecipherable expression as he replies, “perhaps you’ve always been lonely, channie. it’s all you know.”

and, when chan manages an hour or so of sleep, he dreams of a man descended from heaven telling him he’s too lonely for his own good. the man is blurry but when chan focused on him, he looked like woojin. his voice booms as he speaks, striking chan down. y _ou’ll die from it_ , he says, _are you aware?_

 _i am_ , chan responds. _i’ve always been aware. let me perish from my loneliness. it’s a swifter death than rejection or heartbreak._

when he awakes, a voice rings in his head, making his heart heavy and his cheeks wet from tears that fall fast. he’s shaking and he feels like he can’t fucking breathe. _loneliness is the worst death_ , it said, _you’ll found out soon enough_.

***

it’s early in the morning, he’s supposed to be at his job (cashier at a music shop this time) in two hours. he’s nursing a cold black coffee and avoiding woojin’s eyes, the nightmare from last night fresh on his mind.

wouldn’t you be afraid if you were told loneliness would be your downfall when loneliness was all you came to know?

chan supposes the fact that it was a dream version of woojin that made the words harsher. after all, woojin was like a religion and chan wanted to be devout to him and him only. he takes every word to heart and stores it away, chants his name like a prayer whenever he’s able. he would follow him blindly and that scares him, terrifies him to the point of helplessness.

woojin is a god and he is hopelessly devoted.

when woojin’s break begins, he saunters over to chan’s booth and slides into the seat. tapping the table in order to get the other to look up, he smiles (and the helios must be jealous that someone shines brighter than he ever will).

“chan?” he says his name like it’s art, uttering it in the most beautiful of ways. chan’s entranced for a few moments, breaking out of it when he remembers he’s required to respond (which he does by humming in acknowledgement).

“are you free tomorrow?”

“uh.” he doesn’t mean to blush but he does. he probably looks funny, the way he’s comically looking at the other as if he just asked chan to marry him. he’s acting so ridiculous for no good reason. “yeah, i think? i don’t think i’m scheduled for an actual job tomorrow.”

“do you think we can go out? like grab food or something?”

 _he’s just being nice_ , the voices say.

 _maybe so_ , chan thinks, _but i’m a selfish man who wants to indulge in the impossible._

“okay, i’d love that.”

***

the next day, chan changes his outfit a total of ten times before he’s slightly satisfied with it. he chooses a off-white sweater and some black skinny jeans with black vans. he figures that’s good enough, especially since he never really dressed up to go to the cafe (he wore ratty t-shirts and torn jeans only for the first ten visits).

they meet at the cafe and head to some ramen place woojin thought would be nice for lunch. the food is good (better than chan anticipated it to be) and he only stumbled once when he ordered. as they eat, they sit in silence but it’s not awkward. that’s the strange part to him, that it’s not deafening loud silence that makes chan want to scream. it’s just there, almost comforting in a way and he’s not used to it.

when they leave, woojin suggests they take a walk around the park for a while, to stretch their legs and marvel at nature. chan agrees (it’d be a sin to go against him) and they’re walking around with their shoulders pressed together, woojin rambling about chorus and how he’s not sure he’ll get the part he wants which is absurd because he’s sure woojin’s singing voice is as angelic as regular one so he’ll absolutely get the part. and when he tells him this, chan witnesses his face redden the most gorgeous color and it takes his breath away.

chan was sure that he was staring at the 8th wonder of the world. while poets wrote books about nature and its unrivaled beauty, chan was sure he could write a million novels over just the way woojin’s nervous smile made his heart seize or how his eyes are the sweetest color he’s ever seen.

they sit down on a bench facing a rushing river, chatting about any topic that came to mind. turned towards one another, he found that holding a conversation with woojin was one of the most natural things and it made his skin crawl. _two souls made for each other_ , the voices say, _but one only sees the other as a friend_. _how tragic_ , they spat as they laugh and it almost makes him want to cry. almost.

instead he just forces a smile and continues on.

but it’s hard, it’s so hard when someone that finally makes him smile, that gives him a reason to be alive when he’s never actually had one, is sitting just a few inches away from him and he can’t do anything but be his friend. he can’t capture his alluring lips in a kiss, can’t hold his hand in order to ground himself, can’t tell him how much he loves him.

he can’t even tell him how grateful he is for existing. woojin probably doesn’t even realize the impact he’s made but chan does. he always does.

‘ _you’ll die alone, you always do_ ,’ they remind him and he thinks that maybe it’s worth a little hurt if he could gain something for once in his fucking life. he’s made up his mind, he’s sick of being content with his fate when he could change it at the tip of a fucking hat. fuck it.

so he dives right in.

“woojin?”

“hm?”

there’s so much he wants to say, so much he aches to convey but he doesn’t have much time and he’s never been the best with his words. so he inches closer and places his trembling hand on the other’s face, caressing skin cut from pristine marble, his thumb brushing over his cheekbones. a moment of hesitation causes chan to nearly back out but soon he feels lips pressed against his own and it takes a few seconds for it to kick in.

_woojin was kissing him._

_woojin was actually fucking kissing him._

he responds eagerly, kissing him until his lungs feel like they’re gonna burst. he doesn’t feel fireworks or see stars but he feels that same feeling he’s always felt: like he was finally home. moving back to catch his breath, he thinks that right now, right in this moment, woojin has never looked so stunning.

with kiss-swollen lips that were a ravishing red, with hungry eyes, with eagerness and want clear on his face, with wandering hands. he immediately kisses him again, tasting tea and sugar and woojin, the taste addicting and everything chan ever hoped it was.

“you’re a god,” chan says. “you’re so beautiful, i’ve wanted to kiss you since i saw you.”

“you’re a fool,” woojin replies. “i’ve wanted you to kiss me since i saw you.”

chan smiles and he feels lighter than he ever has. the voices rage but he shoves them into the back of his mind, distracting himself with the boy in front of him.

“i’m so lucky,” he whispers as he peppers kisses over woojin’s face. it makes the boy laugh as he plays with chan’s hand, drawing a heart over and over on the back of his hand.

“oh, channie.” woojin smiles back and chan swears that he’ll condemn himself to hell as a sinner if he gets to be with this god, this living work of art. “don’t you know that i’m the lucky one?”

and though the voices remain, though his insomnia still fucks him up at times, though his depression and anxiety tag team him when he’s already suffering.. he thinks that it’s okay because for fucking once in his sorry life, chan is living instead of just being alive.

when they decide to head back to the cozy cafe, walking hand-in-hand with flushed cheeks and goofy grins, chan thinks ‘ _thank you for giving me him, thank you for giving me someone to love, thank you for giving someone that cares. thank you so fucking much’._

he doesn’t really know who he’s thanking.

**Author's Note:**

> dgjshdjhg i hope? it was good? i experimented a lot w my writing in this and i hope it worked lmao but! hi ilysm thank u for reading! im trying to get back into writing things like this so i hope my first one wasnt too bad uwu <33
> 
> tumblr: lovseungmin


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